


Old Bones In Young Skin

by Emma_Please



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Stiles, Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is fucked up, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8760607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Please/pseuds/Emma_Please
Summary: Stiles wonders if the blood on his hands is actually there or if it's just a figment of his fucked up imagination. Either way, it's always there. He finds himself staring at them sometimes, trying to remember what they looked like before the blood and if they were as ugly as they are now. It's a hard thought, and he gives up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I was bored, and I basically word vomited. What came out was an angst y Stiles fic that has probably already been done a million and one times, but oh well. Enjoy. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not Teen Wolf.

It's among the young and weary that Stiles realizes he's been trudging for days. The land around him shifts and twirls, bright colors dimming to dull hues. He's been here before; seen the tree's roots crawl into his mind and whisper across his skin. If he were younger, untouched by the wounds of war, he'd cry, but the rivers have run dry, and his eyes no longer see fear in the dark. Instead, they see respite. A warm shadow to hide in while the world outside freezes and burns and decays. It's all too much work.

His feet hurt from the walking. He doesn't actually walk, but it feel like it. Feels like he's been walking ever since that stupid fucking night where he thought looking for half bodies was a good idea. Sometimes the urge to slap his past self take over, and he finds himself bent over, staring at his twitching fingers and hoping to God- what God? His mind sneers- that it'll all be over soon. That this  _adventure_ is actually just a nightmare and when he wakes up Scott won't be furry, and Lydia won't scream, and Allison- poor Allison. Allison, with her pretty face and fierce attitude and dead _dead_ eyes. He's never known how much he hates himself until he finds himself sobbing sorry's onto her grave and realizing she would have forgiven him.

Stiles wonders if the blood on his hands is actually there or if it's just a figment of his fucked up imagination. Either way, it's always there. He finds himself staring at them sometimes, trying to remember what they looked like before the blood and if they were as ugly as they are now. It's a hard thought, and he gives up. His dad used to hold his hand, long time back. They'd pull at each other and swing around, smiles wide and cheeks aching. Now his father can't bear to look him in the eye. Or at his hands. Matter of fact, his father never looks at him at all. Too busy with work and trying to forget the crimes his son has committed.

Stiles doesn't blame him.

 _murderdeathblood_ STOP _monsterwhy?_

There are times when he thinks of his mother. Her smile and eyes and the way she'd call him so sweetly, as if he was the most precious human ever. _Hieronim,_ she'd call, the name rolling smoothly off her tongue, warm arms encompassing him. He can still remember her face; the curve of her cheek against his head, soft lips grazing his skin, whiskey eyes like a warm summers day. Those memories are frayed now, like pictures folded over and over, creased and burnt and faded but still there, taped to the back of his mind so he can always remember the first and last person who loved him. But with those good memories, there's a tidal wave of bad. Stiles will never forget the day she looked at him and cried, shrieking as he came near. Her words mixing together like a cocktail of hurt. 

_"No, get away! John-why, please- monster! Don't come near me you wretched child!"_

He'd refused to touch her after that. Refused to look her in the eyes and call her mommy. When she had died, he'd hated the name Hieronim. Hated that it represented the woman who'd betrayed him. So he changed it to Stiles. Changed it to a name that got him ridiculed and hated because it was different. He was different. People hate what they can't understand. They hated him. And he hated them. 

Scott was different though. Scott didn't hate him. Scott shared with him and talked to him; smiled at him. Scott was his only friend. Until he wasn't. Until Scott realized that all he needed was to be a furry and cool and people would love you. Stiles was left in the dust while Scott went gallivanting off with pretty brunettes and furry jocks. And yet Stiles couldn't hate him for it. He couldn't hate Scott for trying to become something Stiles couldn't. Even these days, with Scott staring at him like he doesn't know if Stiles is human anymore, Stiles can't find it in himself to resent the boy. 

 _AllisonwhyohGodwhy_ STOP _prettybrunettesandcandyapplesmiles_

It's confusing. The myriad of emotions that Stiles used to feel are no longer there. They've been washed away with the tears and self worth. He remember a time where cuts and bruises would make him flinch, and rejection would make him hurt. Nowadays there's nothing but an empty ache inside him, and even with that ache, Stiles doesn't understand. Because emotions don't fade away. They don't just cease to exist because the owner is broken and battered. No, emotions are always there, bubbling underneath the surface, waiting to implode and make you _feel_. But Stiles hasn't felt those emotions in a long time, not since that damned fox took hold of him and decided that Stiles was perfect for a host. 

Truthfully, Stiles doesn't miss them as much as he probably should. 

 


End file.
